


Find What You Love

by theworstchosen1



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Rivalry, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-12-17 02:32:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11842134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theworstchosen1/pseuds/theworstchosen1
Summary: Simon and Baz clashed on everything. Simon didn’t know how to lie, how to be calm and cool and collected and fight with backhanded comments and snide looks. Simon fought for everything- and he did so boldly. Honestly. He loved and hated and fought without guile and with faith that he would survive it. But sometimes Baz looked into his eyes (blue, blue) and wondered if Simon cared if he survived. Baz wondered, in the back of his mind, what caused the restlessness in Simon, in his twitching fingers and scars.Simon/Baz in a non-magic v prestigious academy, essentially.





	1. Chapter One

Watford Academy was split almost perfectly into two neat sections. In Baz’s mind, he labelled them; The Legacies, like himself, who came in long lines of splendour and excellence and heaps of cash, or the Scholarships- students hand-picked for skill and eloquence, just without the lineage. They were there to start new lines of wealth- or be erased from memory. 

In secondary-school-politics terms, it mattered both hugely and not at all. They weren’t Capulets and Montagues, you could intermingle, but the divide was there. Clear as glass. Impossible to ignore and blatantly displayed. Watford was a pretentious, prestigious and pompous school that claimed enough history and whose hallways dropped enough names for a visitor to believe it played a vital part in the history of England. (They weren’t far off.) 

There were plenty of private schools preening and protesting their power in Britain- but none were Watford. A sprawling medieval castle refurbished into a state of the art academic machine, situated on sprawling grounds with more activities than one person could possibly do. It was the best- at everything. Ofsted. Sports. Academic results. Even the things it was actually fairly terrible at (diversity, friendliness) were looked over in the light of all its’ crowning achievements. It was the old British society- of aristocrats and education- made into a building.

And Baz loved it more than life. 

Loved the stone walls, the grandeur, the history and culture and knowledge encased in every stone and wooden floor. It was all he had left of his mother. It was his heart, his freedom. Because in Watford, you could do anything, as long as you were brilliant at it. 

Baz had spent time and effort becoming a shining example of everything Watford was. Helped by his family, who taught this sort of thing from birth, Baz was ruthless and cunning and traditional and brilliant. Others saw him as the King of the Legacies, the one with the richest and most successful histories. He had been born and bred to be a ruler of everything he entered- a school, a career, and most importantly, a room. 

The simple fact was this: family lines that held up Watford Academy with money and reputations were as vital as the bricks and foundations. And the Grimm-Pitches were especially so; a long line of biochemists that were the first people mentioned by the staff when trying to impress a visitor. Nobel Prizes and various other awards glittered throughout the lineage- and everyone, whether they despised or revered Baz for his rudeness or his impertinence or for his elegance and smart remarks, knew, just knew he was going in the same direction. That his cheekbones and his smirk would leer down at them from these walls one day. Baz was fully aware of this fact. (And naturally, along with most things connected to his family, he hated it.)

It made poetic justice, then, that Baz should share a room with Simon Snow.

Simon Snow was very the other sector of Watford Academy. Scholarships, on average, had varied backgrounds, sometimes no prestige or money to their name, but eligible to be there for their wits and abilities by themselves. As long as the governors are sure that this child has glory surrounding their future, they ignore the background and the lack of pre-existing family fame. That being said, most scholarship kids came from privileged, white, middle class families- they just weren’t the elite. 

Legacies were the elite. They were heirs to families that had been around in Britain since it had been made, grown from British soil wearing a suit and a neat moustache. Legacies were traditional, esteemed, and vicious. Legacies did not have to apply to Watford.

Scholarships looked on at the Legacies and revered them. Despised them. Envied them. But eventually- copied them. Hid their jagged edges to use as weapons beneath the smooth, razor exterior. Learnt to sneer and be snide and dishonest. Watford cultivated backstabbers and secret dealers.

But Simon Snow- he never lost the jagged edges. He was a hurricane of bronze curls and bloody knuckles, clumsy and brave and brilliant, and so far out of the Watford mould it was a wonder the gates opened for him. 

Baz knew he was going to hate Simon Snow before the actual feeling emerged. Because Snow was a symbol of Headmaster Mage’s reforms- changing the traditions and the lessons upheld by Baz’s mother- and Baz hated Mage. Sometimes, yes- he hates his tradition and his family and Legacies and his family history- but he had always loved his mother. And he hated Mage.

Simon and Baz clashed on everything. Simon didn’t know how to lie, how to be calm and cool and collected and fight with backhanded comments and snide looks. Simon fought for everything- and he did so boldly. Honestly. He loved and hated and fought without guile and with faith that he would survive it. But sometimes Baz looked into his eyes (blue, blue) and wondered if Simon cared if he did survive. Baz wondered, in the back of his mind, what caused the restlessness in Simon, in his twitching fingers and scars. 

He made it so easy to hate him. In Simon’s first two years’ alone, he won two physics awards for the school. Headmaster Mage found a new favourite student in Simon Snow- impressionable and naïve and angry and brilliant as he was. 

And, holy gods, Baz hated him. And Simon hated Baz. And they were forced to share a room and a timetable- and it was clear, really, right from the start. That this was how disasters occurred. 

Time passed, and the rivalry grew into something accepted, and they learnt to exist together, and the arguments they still frequented with vicious intent stayed into accepted topics- the same battles, again and again, with no winners and no victories, just rage and yelling and the occasional punch.  
But the thing was, Baz knew, that in a way he could not live without Simon. The rivalry became an essential and solid part of his life. Something real, unchangeable, constant. Even if everything was falling apart, Baz always had Simon to make it worse.

To Baz, Snow was something special. He had plenty of people he didn’t like, sure. Lots of grudges. But Snow was a special case. Snow was the embodiment of everything that was wrong with this school, and he was so irritating. Baz loved it. He loved how easily Snow got riled up, how he expressed everything so openly, so without apology. It was so far from the carefully concealed insults he was used to receiving from the people in his family’s social circles. So, Baz cherished every fight where he got the privilege of watching Snow unravel. There was also a sick sort of satisfaction in getting insults he knew he deserved, too. The ones everyone else was too scared to say. 

Baz figured he might love Simon. Was it such a surprise? He had always been self-loathing, always had tempted self-destruction. Being close to Simon felt like he was destroying himself. Simon was so tough- he was never going to break. And Baz could handle it- the destruction and rage and desire he loved and hated- because this was Watford. He wasn’t going to screw it up.

...

It had not been a good summer. In all honesty, summers were rarely good, but this past one had seems a little darker than usual, even within the cavernous confines the Pitch manor. 

His Father had been more icy-cold and full of rage than usual, and had argued loudly against everything Baz had suggested about his future. Instead of doing private tours of universities, they just argued about what Baz should do at them- for his Father, the choice was Medicine or Biochemistry and either university- (for Baz’s dear Father, of course, there were only two universities worth going to in the country). For Baz, he was wondering if he could survive either part of Oxbridge, and had no interest what so ever in the sciences. He had no idea what he wanted to do, but he wanted to be good at it. To want it as desperately as he wanted Watford. 

He had been counting down the days to get back here, to these walls and corridors and people. To get away from his Father’s snide comments about what his mother would have wanted and the way his little sister flinched every time Baz or his father shouted. It was too much. He needed Watford- and he needed what came after to be on his terms. Because, gods try and stop him, he was going to make his own way and he was going to get Mordelia out of their Father’s grasp so she could decide what she wanted to do by herself. It had become almost a mantra in his head- get out, get away, get Mordelia out, get her away…

Baz got back to their room before Snow, for which he was eternally grateful. It gave him time to unpack, to change into his uniform, to mentally prepare himself, and to throw open the large bay window of their room and just breathe in the view of the sprawling grounds. Every morning he had opened his bedroom window waiting for it to be this view that he saw, the sloping green lawns, the woods arcing up the hills in the distance, the glittering lake, the tennis courts, the sprawling school buildings and halls. 

People were still arriving, cars flooding the gates, well-dressed parents saying mostly emotionless farewells to their children- trunks and suitcases being escorted around on carts by staff. Baz scanned around, but saw no hint of Snow, although he spotted Bunce. He frowned a little, wondering what would cause one of them to be without the other after a summer of separation.

Casting his thoughts away from Snow (or attempting to- never worked), he contemplated going for a walk, trying to find Dev or Niall… 

Maybe looking out the window, the calming effect of being at Watford again also had negative effects, as his guard was down far enough that when the door flew open behind him, (with a far too violent bang- definitely Snow), and he spun around, he didn’t have enough composure to contemplate his first words to his roommate before they were out of his mouth. 

“What the fuck happened to you?” He exclaimed, and then mentally cursed, because it wasn’t nearly biting enough, it was shock, and buried beneath, far enough that no one would look, worry. 

He had perfectly good reason for saying this. Snow had shouldered open the door, scruffy hold-all on his shoulder swinging, and he had flicked his head up to see Baz, and Christ, his face. He had a purplish black eye and a cut arching up his cheekbone, white steri-strips stark against his gold skin. Scanning from head-to-toe in what he hoped was a nefarious gaze, Baz noticed that both his hands were bandaged up and his bag was on his left shoulder, and he was holding the right one stiffly. 

“What’s it to you?” Snarls Snow, and there’s that after-Summer edge. The wild eyes, the bitten nails. He’s so skinny, too. His T-Shirt hangs loose. He ducks his head again, his hair tumbling down- he’s let it grow out. He dumps his bag unceremoniously on his bed. He barely ever packs anything- it’s like he’s trying to stand out- most people turning up here have trunks and trunks of things, scraping away their belongings from their mansions bedrooms to survive the academic year, but not Snow. He has a single hold-all, the same battered one he’s brought to Watford every year. 

“Snow. You look like someone has thrown you down a lot of stairs.” Baz says, eyes still tracing Snows’ injuries. There are more under his clothes, Baz is sure. 

Snow raises his head, and then an eyebrow and regards Baz coolly. “No, that was you, remember?” His mouth turns up a little at the side. 

Baz misses a beat, staring at Snow. Since when does Snow make jokes to him? He contemplates asking him. “I don’t recall injuring you this summer, Snow. Knowing you, you fell down a few flights on your own.” He says instead. 

Snow looks away and dumps his bag on the bed. “Something like that.” He mutters. He turns, abruptly, and leaves, shutting the door behind him with less vehemence than normal.  
Baz stares at the space he left, thinking. What has got our dear Simon Snow, friend of everyone, handsome as all hell, golden boy of the year, so deflective? And so… tarnished. Snow is not secretive- not at all. He’s a brilliant nemesis- he’s useless at keeping secrets. He is so straight forward, blunt honesty to the end.

So What the fuck just happened? Baz wonders as he, too, leaves the room in search of Dev or Niall. He knows he shouldn’t care, knows that obsessing over Snow’s mental state, worrying about him, is pointless and self-destructive and at least six types of embarrassing. But no one can read minds. He’s allowed to worry in secret. 

The thing is- he knows Snow so well. Half obsession and pining, sure, but living with someone for the majority of six years means that Baz just knows. He knows the emotional Snow and the basic facts and what he wears to bed. 

He needs to stop thinking about him.

Snow will have gone to find Penelope Bunce or Agatha Wellbelove or one of his other fourteen friends. Bunce and Wellbelove were both legacies, like Baz, but they were friends with Snow despite this- and to be honest, it wasn’t really saying much. Almost everyone was friends with Snow- unless of course, they were friends with Baz. You couldn’t be both. 

They hated each other. Or at least Simon hated Baz. It was an essential and unchangeable fact that came hand in hand with Watford. Baz needed Snow here- he knew that. Needed him to fight with, to remind Baz, just with his presence, not to turn into his father. They fought. They seethed in silence. They yelled at each other. They didn’t have conversations- but it worked, somehow, it worked. Kept Baz grounded.

So yes, he was worried. He was worried about Snow, who looks like he’s lost a dozen fights and been thrown against a wall. He was worried about Snow, who did not want to talk about his injuries. He was worried. 

Damn this. Damn everything.  
…  
The injuries went further than Baz thought. That first night back, Snow got back to their room a little after lights out- nothing new, Simon always toed the wrong side of the line. Baz had gone to bed, but was reading his way through some Oscar Wilde, else he would just be woken up by Snow when he came crashing back into the room. Now that he was back, though, Baz dropped his book to the floor and turned over. The lights went out and silence stretched between them. Then, Baz heard a distinct hiss of pain, despite his better judgement that Snow had just stubbed his toe again, he turned, and bit back a swear word. 

Snows’ bare back was a full rainbow of bruises- beginning in a concentrated point at the side of his ribs and spreading outwards. He had seen Snow topless before- flashes here and there, after which Baz forced himself to look away, and have some self-control, dammit. He was certain Snow had never been this badly beaten up, but as the light from the window danced along the planes of Snows back, Baz saw scars, too, old ones, new ones, puckered shiny skin in lines and dots and grazes.  
It was no secret that Snow was kind of tough- he had partaken in many fights over their years here and had been good at it, but despite being quick to anger and being a great punch, he was laid-back and funny and genuine, and was popular in the way the Legacies could never quiet grasp- not used to honesty, to insults delivered straight. But who had he pissed off this time? Who had he pissed off enough to get used as a punch bag? And Baz was sure they must be bad, because Snow was a well-built guy (even more so now Baz had seen him without a shirt)- how many people had to have done this?

Baz told himself, turning away as Snow finally put a shirt on and got into bed, that he was jumping to conclusions. Snows dear Mummy and Daddy had probably sent to him to a stupid little summer camp where he did martial arts and rock climbing and canoeing and got bruised and injured because he was such a klutz like seriously. And then he would have sat around camp fires with big groups of friends laughing and drinking and smoking weed- nice and laid back and good fun. Or at least, that was what Baz envisioned all the people who didn’t have family reputations pressing against their back like the barrel of a gun. 

So Baz cursed Snow in his head, screwed his eyes shut, and ignored everything till he fell asleep.


	2. Chapter Two

It had not been a good summer. They never were- whether he was in a home or an orphanage, he always hated it in the end. The couples taking him on were never the caring, compassionate, hard working people you saw in media representation of children in care. They were worn, strong, no-nonsense people, ready to give the teenager with a really crap file a chance. They were ready for him to screw it up before he walked in the door. 

Simon had never seen it- and he didn’t need to. He knew his file was the crappiest of them all. It was missing murder and drugs, but the rest of it was all there. 

And Simon tried. Tried to be nice and helpful, not to be paranoid or sarcastic or to yell or get into fights- but it never worked out. The thing about Watford- having somewhere far away to go, out of the system- was that he knew how good it could be. He knew that so many kids had loving households and good educations. He had a good education. But it made days of staring at nothing in between part-time jobs so much harder- knowing that it could have been better than this, for him. People like Baz, who never had to worry about anything, just sneered and strutted around in hundred-pound shoes. He tried not to be ungrateful- his scholarship to Watford Academy had been a miracle, a tree in the road on his downward spiral to prison and homelessness. And yet the summers never got easier- another condescending social worker, another tired face opening the door for him, a new ceiling to stare at in the dark every night. 

Simon was a mess. 

When he was with his friends- or with people at school, it was so much easier to hide it. People at Watford may as well have been on another planet- and that helped. A lot. Because Watford kids never acted like other in-care kids, never threw around stupid insults or flipped you off for no reason- and it made it easy to pretend. 

To pretend he wasn’t a mess. To pretend he was confident, calm, friendly. To pretend he belonged with them. He did not. 

God, he wanted to murder most of them. These snobby rich kids who’d never had a job (or three), who never worried about food on the table or where they were sleeping that summer or how on earth they were going to pay for uni when they couldn’t afford two weeks rent of a shitty apartment. Who had the audacity to joke about ‘the homeless problem’ and ‘people stealing benefits from the government’. People who thought the NHS was a waste of government spending. People who just had no fucking clue how the world worked. 

The stupid thing was- they would never need to. And they’d still be the ones leading the country. 

Baz was the worst of all of them. Simon shortened his name- Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch was so horrendous and hilarious that thinking about it made Simon want to punch someone (Baz) in the face. 

(You could take the kid out of the foster home, but...) 

But this last summer had been the worst yet. Worst ever. It ended in A&E and three days crashing on his social workers couch whilst refusing to fill in court forms for the investigation. He wasn’t going on record about it all, jesus. Someone at school would find out- about his summers. About what a mess he was. Well- the staff all knew, and Penny and Agatha, but no one else. He’d hid it carefully. 

But the worst summer had opened the doors to the last year at Watford, and Simon wondered how he had managed to find the motivation to turn up this year. (And the strength- moving hurt. Everything hurt.) The bruising on his face was going down- that had only been the on the last day, the last fight before A&E. He had a few broken ribs, a recently-dislocated-now-just-painful shoulder- but it could have been worse. 

He figured that in a way, he deserved it. His choice not to go on file about the beatings and shit despite his social workers’ insistence prevented an official enquiry from opening. Meaning another poor kid was going to get shipped off into that house, with those people, and face the same thing. Maybe they’d be braver than him. Report it. Somehow- he doubted it. 

He knew foster kids. He was one. They didn’t complain- they weren’t used to being believed. 

But the guilt had settled around his shoulders, and he climbed up to the room he shared with Baz with gritted teeth and an urge to throw himself out of the window. Not to fall- but to break something. …He thinks so, anyway. Either way, it’s tempting. 

He shoulders open the door, keeping his head down, but between his hair he sees Baz- obviously there before Simon, he always is. Simon thinks that he would hate Baz a lot less if Baz wasn’t so good-looking – handsome in the way that Watford was. Clean cut, polished, razor sharp. But for a moment, when Baz turned and looked at Simon, his crystal sneer churned and broke, emotions flitting across his features. 

“What the fuck happened to you?” He asks, a little too loudly. 

Simon snorted internally. He bet Baz had never seen decent injuries in real life. Probably just on the news- or maybe in books about criminal psychology. 

He couldn’t cope with Baz, not right now. Couldn’t be in the same room as him. He needed to go see Penny, think up enough decent excuses to turn her questions from the bruises. He should probably talk to Agatha, too. He didn’t want to- he didn’t necessarily regret breaking up with her (it was never going to last) but he hated the new awkwardness between the three of them. He also suspected Agatha fancied Baz- but he was normally suspecting something with Baz. Penny told him he was being stupid. 

For Simon, Baz was the price he had to pay to be here, at Watford. And he could put up with Basilton Grimm-Pitch, despite his snobbishness, the stick up his arse and his tendency to be a massive prick if it meant he got to stay at Watford. Watford was his one shot at freedom- and he wasn’t going to mess it up. 

As soon as he had dealt with Baz and dumped his stuff, he walked out of their building and bumped straight into Penny- who, as normal, looked like she was on a mission. She looked the same- which was a relief. Penny looked like she had taken a long hard look at the Watford dress code and then stuck her middle finger up at it. (This was the sort of school this was- there was no uniform, yet most of the students turned up to classes in suits anyway.) 

The summer had added two new additions to her appearance- her hair was now lilac, not blue, and she had a nose ring. Simon approved of both. 

Simons additions to his appearance did not seem to be going down as well with Penny. 

The shock in her eyes had faded to anger. His amusement at this dispelled into annoyance as she asked the same thing Baz had. 

“What the fuck happened to you, Simon? Are you okay?” There was real concern in her voice. Simon loved Penny, loved that she didn’t lie to him, loved her fierce defiance and loyalty. But sometimes her determination got in his way- like when he was trying to keep secrets from her. 

“God, is everyone going to ask me that?” He mutters back. 

Her brow furrows. She grabs his arm (luckily not the one with the fucked-up shoulder) and begins marching him away- probably somewhere they can talk in private. 

“Yes, probably, as you look like you’ve been hit by a truck. What happened?” She looks up at him imperiously, glasses sliding down her nose. 

He sighs. “I was at a summer camp thing- council run.” Penny’s expression softens fractionally when he says ‘council run’- she is always sympathetic about his summers. He’s not sure he likes it. He hates pity, but is grateful of her (of anyone) caring. “The last day was quad-biking. I am not good at quad-biking.” 

She raises an eyebrow. 

“I mean it. Quad bikes are heavy. And one fell on me.”

She impossibly raises the eyebrow higher.

“Fine. I crashed it and got trapped under it- happy?”

Maybe Penny doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t push it further. Which is not like her- so either he’s a better liar than he thinks he is, or he looks much worse than he thinks the does. 

“As long as you’re okay, I suppose.” She says finally. 

Simon nudges her with his elbow. “I’m fine, don’t worry so. How was your far more interesting summer?” 

She shrugs. “It was fine. Crete is cool architecture wise, but not at all temperature wise. Plus forcing my family to spend time together is never a good idea. A week with us all in one hotel? Hell.” She says, sighing and tightening her pony tail.

He nods. “Let me guess. Your mum and Premal?” 

“You betcha. But dad got involved too and was catastrophically unhelpful, and none pf us actually like swimming so god knows why we were in a place with two pools, a hot tub, and a beach and not much else. Needless to stay, I spent most of the week skyping Micah and reading.” 

He laughs (it hurts)- Simon has always found Penny’s family fascinating, but completely dysfunctional. Some of her siblings are barely in school and yet they all seem to have things to do, individual agendas and tasks. Sometimes it reminded him of a care home- one of the good, friendly ones. That always had cake and crisps in the cupboards. 

Agatha joined them, then, long light blonde hair tumbling around her shoulders, eyes wide and earnest, as always. She smiles her. “Hey, Penny, Simon, good summers?” 

She doesn’t look at Simon right away, and Simon worries that things are still going to be awkward, but she catches herself and smiles at him- the smile fading as she takes in the black eye. 

After assuring her that he is fine, and asking after own summer (it was great, she’s sad to be back- and that could be the reason they were never going to last, really), they move back up to the main buildings of Watford to get some back-to-school buffet lunch. It feels less awkward this year, thank god. 

Throughout the course of the day, Simon begins to feel the summer sliding off his shoulders, just a little. The Watford ground was sturdier beneath his feet than the rest of the world, it seemed. His mind was clearer, he felt a little less exhausted (gods, when was the last time he’d had a full night’s sleep? July?). Having Penny helped enormously, too. She was familiar to a fault, and seemed to have a natural ability to grab onto Simon’s spinning consciousness and stop it from spiralling out of control. 

…

Simon hadn’t thought tonight out, which he thinks was stupid now he’s faced with it. He had forgotten that, despite his bed at Watford being safe and comfortable and maybe, maybe, he’ll get some decent sleep- it is also about two meters from Baz’s bed. 

And he can’t remember a night all summer he didn’t wake up from nightmares. And his insomnia has gotten horrendous. And how he needs to pace to get back to sleep.   
Why didn’t he think about this? Why didn’t he mentally prepare himself for this?

He gets back to the room late, pushing it, hoping Baz will do something out of character and actually go to sleep before Simon gets back to the room- something he never does. He claims that there’s no point, because Simon will just wake him up again. It’s probably not a lie, despite the cruel words and sneer- Simon never learnt to subtle and graceful and quiet. He’s loud at everything. 

When Baz sees him, he sighs and rolls his eyes. Simon doesn’t bite- he’s too busy trying to think of happy things to fill his unconscious instead of fists and blood and being huddled in a corner. Being trapped. 

Baz drops his book and turns off his light, plunging the room into darkness. 

Simon is no stranger to nightmares. He’s always had violent recurring dreams- and always been a light sleeper. It never really bothered him- it was manageable. He learnt to cope on little to no sleep. But as the years have gone on, his nightmares had begun to be based off real events, and now sleep is a task Simon dreads. He can’t imagine looking in a mirror and not seeing purple smudges under his eyes. 

On bad days, Simon forgets to eat and he forget to sleeps. He finds something meaningless that involves moving- running, pacing, whatever, and do it until his mind and body are so tired his eyes are crossing. Then he pushes it a little longer- sometimes the whole night, sometimes he drops off and has two hours of dreamless sleep.   
Two hours of dreamless sleep seems preferable to five hours full of images of knives and dark alleys, and waking up sweating and panting. Spending the next ten minutes digging fingers into flesh to try and remind himself what’s real and what’s not. 

Simon thinks he should probably try and push it through tonight- but he won’t. He can feel sleep tugging at his edges, pulling him down into the mattress.   
And it’s not like Baz sleeps through the night- he wakes up at least half as much as Simon does, and he thrashes around like he has nightmares too. It’s always made Simon wonder about him- what is it that could scare perfect Bailton into not sleeping? What could he be afraid of? Running out of tailored suits?

Simon does fall asleep almost straight away that night. And his dreams don’t stay innocent for long. He wakes up panting, still hearing the pounding of fists on the ironing cupboard, still feeling the boiler burning his spine, hearing the yelling and shouting. He’s gasping and shuddering, fingernails dug into his scalp, forcing oxygen into and out of his lungs. 

“…Snow? Are you dying over there?” Baz’s voice sounds distorted to Simon’s racing thoughts. Annoyed but soft, not condescending. Simon wants to punch him anyway. 

“No.” Simon gasps out after a second. There’s water on his face- he can’t remember if it’s blood or tears. Tears. No blood. There’s no blood here. 

Baz is sat up in his bed, turned toward Simon. In the shadows, Simon can’t see his face. Can’t tell what his expression is. Is he mocking? Probably. 

“Just leave it alone, Baz.” Simon spits out, unfurling from his hunched pose and leaning his head back against the wall. Listing all the things he likes about Watford. Likes about Penny. His favourite foods. Lists the laws of motion. Counts to a hundred of fifty in prime numbers. 

He’s barely at 43 when Baz interrupts his counting. “Do you… need a glass of water or something?” His voice is soft. And if Simon wasn’t focusing everything he had on trying to be quiet, he might not have heard it. 

He doesn’t know what the smart answer is. Never does, when it comes to Baz. He’s not good with words, but Baz always strikes him into seething silence in just a few sentences.

But for once, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about what Baz thinks about him. It won’t be bad as what Simon thinks about himself, anyway. And he’s exhausted, can feel it in his bones. And he is thirsty- his throat seems to be wrapped in paper. 

“Yes. Please.” He says. Baz’s silhouette goes completely still, then in one smooth movement he gets up and walks into the bathroom. 

He returns with a glass of water, and doesn’t falter walking to Simon’s bed, not his. Simon accepts it, and their eyes meet- Baz’s are guarded, cautious. They’re so dark in the dim greyness of this room- it must be what? 3 am? Simon wants to put a light on. 

“Thank you.” Simon whispers. Baz nods, and sits down on his bed, but he keeps his feet on the floor, and faces Simon. Simon drinks, watching him. Wondering what Baz is planning. He never does anything without planning it. 

There’s a long few moments of silence while Simon sips his water and lets his breathing return to normal. Sweat dries on his skin, and the shaking dissolves into sporadic shuddering. 

“… Do you want to talk about it?” Baz asks softly. Seriously. His gaze is still guarded, but also honest. For the first time, Simon wonders how much of Baz’s exterior is a lie. Wonders how alike they are. Because the Baz he knows would never offer aid, not without life-and-death consequences. Never emotional support. Never to Simon. Who is this boy, in the darkness? 

“No.” Simon says, and then catches his tone, catches Baz’s flinch. “I mean- thank you. But I can’t. I really can’t.” His hands are shaking again. He leans forward and puts the glass down. He lowers his head into his hands. 

“In for seven. Hold for two. Out for eleven.” Baz says in response. Simon can feel him watching him. It makes his skin crawl.   
“What?” Simon asks, embarrassed that he’s out of breath again.

“Breathe in for seven, hold it for two, and then exhale for eleven. Counts, I mean.” Simon gapes at him. Baz looks away. “That’s what I do.” He adds, and then turns away and climbs under his covers. 

Simon stares for a few seconds longer, then does what Baz says. The counting is familiar, and despite his lungs feeling like they might burst, he feels his muscles relaxing. Sees the room come into sharper focus. Can listen to Baz’s own regular breaths.

He lies down, slips under the covers, and keeps counting, keeps breathing in and out. And listens to Baz breathe. When he falls asleep, he doesn’t dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading :)


	3. Chapter 3

Baz, wonders, naïvely, if something will have changed in the morning between him and Snow, some small shift in the unchanging rocky slope of their relationship. It has not. They wake up at different times, Snow swears at Baz when his alarm goes off, half an hour before his own. Baz makes a snide comment about Simon always being late, Snow chucks a pillow at him, Baz dodges, criticises Snows juvenile methods of dealing with conflict, and promptly nicks the shower first.  
It’s a routine, that despite slight alterations, stays roughly the same. Baz does not mind it, not one bit. 

Snow in the mornings (grumpy, hair wild, half-asleep) is such a contrast to the Snow Baz saw last night- the Snow he sees little glimpses of, now and then. In his bitten nails and wary glances, the way his shoulders hunch when someone touches him unexpectedly. The Snow who terrifies Baz. Makes his chest ache. 

It was scary. Snow had sat bolt upright, breathing hard- but Baz had been awoken before that. Snow had never been a quiet sleeper (he wasn’t quiet at anything- but maybe that was just Baz, who would always notice Snow before he noticed anyone else in a room), and Baz had learnt to sleep through most of the noise. This meant that when it did wake him up, he knew it was bad. 

And then when Snow had woken himself up, and had immediately sat up and curled in on himself, muffling his own noise, becoming small, less noticeable… Baz’s throat had ached. He had no idea what scared Snow so much- to Baz he seemed like someone who had always had what he wanted- but maybe that was wrong. Snow was always rough and skinny and uncouth- but he was so easy going, so relaxed and good at getting on with people that Baz had just assumed he had had a good childhood. Surely you couldn’t be kind and honest and selfless without loving parents. Or at least, Baz did not have loving parents, and he was not kind or honest or selfless. So. 

But the way Snow had hunched, the way he had pressed his fist into his mouth- he was practiced at being quiet. Practiced at trying not bringing attention to himself. How many nights like last night had Baz slept through? 

Baz couldn’t bear it. So he had done stupid, completely unhelpful things- brought Snow water, like that would stop his shuddering, asked if he wanted to talk, like Snow would ever say yes. But he knew panic attacks. He had dealt with them for too long- and he had never bothered to find methods of soothing until Mordelia had started getting them too.

That had been a shit day. Most of them were, but Mordelia, curled up in the corner of her room, shaking and crying, telling him that Dad didn’t want her, that she wasn’t good enough… Baz had nearly left her there and gone and punched his father in the face. Maybe he still should. 

So Baz had had some advice to offer- 7/11 breathing was what he had taught Mordelia, and it had helped her. She was like Snow- good at maths. Good at counting. He had half suggested it, because Snow had been muttering umbers to himself, reciting them. 

Baz spares five minutes whilst he was pulling on his uniform to fantasize Snow meeting Mordelia. They’d get along, he was sure of it. 

_Simon gets on with everyone. _He tells himself sternly. _And he hates you. He’s never going to meet your family.___

_____ _

Snow grumbles and knocks into him as he walks past Baz into the bathroom, swearing at him mid-yawn for being in the way. Baz tries and fails not to smile. 

____

It seems nothing has changed then. Baz doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. He settles for a detached and distracted middle ground that does not serve him well. As always.

____

It is in Government and Politics, later that day, that Baz and Snow have their first back-to-school argument. Baz has been ready for it- they argue consistently. The last 24 hours have been out of the ordinary, 3am conversations aside.

____

Baz is barely paying attention, but he is snapped to attention by Snow’s raised voice. 

____

“That’s not how it works! You can’t just send a text and get money from the government- you have to claim- it’s all tested. People get benefits because the government worker who investigates their situation believes they deserve them.” Snow says angrily. Baz realises he’s responding to something Dev has said. 

____

Their teacher opens her mouth, but Baz cuts in. 

____

“It’s a waste of government spending, Snow. What’s the point of just giving money to these people without telling them how to spend it?” Baz asks.

____

Snow bristles. He glares daggers at Baz. “They’re not imbeciles, you elitist prick. They know how to spend money.”

____

Baz scoffs. “Fags and TV licenses isn’t what they should be spending government funds on. Not when that money comes from working people’s taxes- I’m just saying benefits are not the answer, there should be schemes to get people into work.”

____

“It’s difficult to find work when you’re in a wheelchair, or can’t afford food for yourself and your children, or can’t pay rent- and besides, what do you know about paying taxes?” Snow says, and Baz curses inwardly. Snow has got him there. He’s fairly sure his father bribes people out of them paying taxes- and then raves of the dinner table at people in council houses stealing their money. 

____

“Also, the schemes thing is a great idea, Baz, but someone got there before you. There’s plenty- but you can’t start a club and end unemployment, not even with the money and influences you have.” Snow says. He doesn’t look so mad any more- his tone is level. The class has sat back, watching. Miss Sheffield is nodding along, clearly happy to let them argue. 

____

Although it doesn’t seem like much of an argument anymore, despite Baz’s urge to make cheap shots at Snow becoming almost overwhelming. 

____

“That doesn’t change the subject matter, Snow. People do claim benefits when they don’t need them.” Snow opens his mouth, but Baz presses on. “They do, Snow, which means that the problem doesn’t lie with the people claiming, but the people deciding who gets financial aid, and how much.” Baz finishes, and too most of the classes astonishment, Snow nods. 

____

“Can’t argue with that- the problem is that too many people see benefits as this big ugly idea that gives money to people who don’t need it so they can go get drunk or high and trash local businesses- but some people only have a roof over their heads because of those payments- and they are not at fault in anyway.” Snows’ gaze is even. Baz wonders, belatedly, why Snow has such an interest in this- he normally doesn’t contribute to lessons that don’t have equations as part of the syllabus.

____

Baz realises he is enjoying himself, too. “So, what really needs to change is the system of providing the money, not the act of giving the money itself.”

____

“Exactly.” Snow says. And then there’s a moment of silence when Baz, and probably Snow, and the rest of the class realise that they’ve both agreed on something. 

____

“Looks like you have at least one correct opinion, then Snow.” Says Baz. He then turns back to Miss Sheffield. “Aren’t you supposed to be teaching us something here?” He asks her, raising an eyebrow. She flushes and calls the class to attention. 

____

Baz quiets his racing thoughts. Whatever happened just then, whatever happened last night- he can survive it. Despite the feeling that the foundations of his life shaking just a little. There’s no point denying that Snow and rivalry and hope is all tangled up into a continent he’s building his life on- and his relationship with Snow changing, even if it seems like it’s getting better- Baz wonders if he will cope. Does he even know how to treat Snow with anything but contempt hiding desire? 

____

It does not matter. Whatever is causing Snow to tolerate Baz, or the other way around- it won’t last.

____

Snow hates Baz. Baz pretends to hate Snow. It works. 

____

…

____

The week that follows their debate is one of the strangest, and best, of Baz’s life. They act pretty much the same in their room, with several small but devastating changes. When Snow wakes up shivering, Baz gets him some water without being asked. Snow always says thank you. And he thanks Baz for teaching him 7/11 breathing. He doesn’t ask how Baz knows it. 

____

When they argue about domestic things in the room, Snow ends the conversation by laughing, instead of raising a fist- a threat he has never followed through with- yet. Making Snow laugh is Baz’s new favourite thing. Even if he can’t do it without getting annoyed at how messy Snow is. 

____

And in class- they continue debating. And god, it’s _wonderful _. For the first time in what feels like forever, someone is challenging Baz’s opinion, contradicting it, pushing him, forcing him to think. They’ve had 7 years to work on arguing with each other, and they’ve found a productive use for it.__

____

__The cheap insults filter out of their in-class arguments, and the topics get more serious. Class and teacher alike awaits one of their debates, and Baz and Snow ruin lesson after lesson as more and more people get involved with each topic. And Baz feels the strangest sensation in his chest whenever they debate. He’s proud, he realises. Completely irresponsibly and irrationally, he is proud of how well Snow is learning to argue his points._ _

____

__Sometimes, Snow still can’t get words out. And he’s not as diplomatic or eloquent as Baz. But he’s passionate and has steel morals, and Baz finds that it’s actually much more rewarding to wait for Snow to get his words together than to insult him for needing time to do so._ _

____

__Dev and Niall are confused at first- they corner Baz about this new sort of civil behaviour between Snow and him. Baz shrugs them off. Arguing with Snow like this, both in and out of the classroom, makes him _happy _.___ _

____

____For the first time since they met, the relationship between them seems balanced, if incredibly fragile. A pane of glass balanced on a needle, waiting to tip and smash. But this fragile not-truce is making Baz happy, godammit, as well as making him fall more and more in love with the disaster that is Simon Snow with every day._ _ _ _

____

____A couple of weeks after that first debate, Snow smashes into the room earlier than usual, that night. He throws the door open and slams it behind him, red in the face and hands in fists. He paces into the room, and as soon as he sees Baz (at his desk, innocently doing homework), he snarls. Baz raises an eyebrow._ _ _ _

____

____"Alright there Snow? What’s gone wrong now? No scones left for golden boy?" Baz says. He’s called Snow golden boy for years- it slips out, along with the cheap joke. _This is why we can’t have nice things, Basilton. _____ _ _

____

______"Fuck off, Baz." Snow says, sitting down on his bed and running his hands across his face, clenching fists in his hair. His shoulders are shaking- Baz can tell he’s trying to calm himself down. Baz’s heart jumps a little when he realises that Snow is counting 7-2-11 out with his fingers whilst he breathes. Baz waits until Snow seems a little more composed before continuing, spinning around in his chair._ _ _ _ _ _

____

______"No. I’m involved now, tell me how hungry you are." Baz says. Snow isn’t wearing his jumper, and there’s a scattering of half faded bruises on his upper arms. As much as Baz repeats the summer camp theory in his head, he doubts it more and more every night Snow wake sup crying. Plus, Baz knows what fingertip bruises look like._ _ _ _ _ _

____

______"You’re literally the last person I want to talk to right now. Can you fuck off? Please?" Snow’s voice is steady, but oddly disconnected._ _ _ _ _ _

____

______Baz laughs. "When am I not? Go on, humour me." There’s no real emotion in Snow’s words. Snow is _always _emotional. Baz is suddenly more concerned.___ _ _ _ _ _

____

________Snow raises his head- and there’s that jagged flame flashing in his blue eyes. It is not a relief.  
He spits out his words. "Fine, I’ll bite. I’m sick and tired of conceited elitist pricks strutting around and throwing their money and influence around like they know how the world works, condescending anyone financially below them, and generally acting like they rule the world because they’ve never worked a day in their life, and then feeling like they have the jurisdiction to offer up opinions about people’s lives they have no fucking clue about." _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

________Baz blinks._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

________"And you happen to be the pinnacle of that, so either you fuck off or I will. Because I am so goddamn done." He puts his head in hands, hair tumbling across the backs of his scarred hands._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

________"Give me some credit, Snow. We agreed in Gov and Pol about the said elitist pricks. Did you not see the pigs flying?" Baz says. Because he has an answer to everything- but even he will admit this is a fucking useless response. Especially now Snow has gone completely still. Shoulders slumped, heels of his palms pressed into his eyes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

________Snow raises his head, and instead of jagged rage and fierce determination in his eyes- his stare is blank. Shuttered._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

_________So goddamn done _\- that’s what Snow had said. But when had he ever been done? He was Simon Snow, he seemed to run on a mixture of caffeine and magic that allowed him to never crack, never stop laughing and running through life. School, being social... it exhausted Baz. But Snow... Snow never ran out of energy. He was never _done _.____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

____________So what had happened? Baz feels anguish curl up in his chest, pricking holes in his lungs. Because, godammit, he is completely, stupidly in love with Simon Snow. And the look in his eyes right now hurts._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

____________"Right." Says Baz, and sits down opposite Snow on his own bed. Their knees are barely a foot apart. Baz remembers, suddenly, that the last time they sat like this, Snow was refusing to talk about his nightmares. "Talk. What happened to you over the summer?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

____________Snow looks at Baz for a few long moments, assessing. "Summer camp. And why do you think I’d tell you, and why would you care?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

____________The summer camp is such an obvious lie, one Baz should have seen earlier, when he couldn’t make himself believe it. He snorts. "Okay, first of all, bullshit, and second, you should tell me because you don’t care about my opinion. Whatever my reaction is will not affect you- you said it yourself- I’m an elitist prick."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

____________Snow considers for a long moment. Then his shoulders slump. "Fine. Fine."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

____________Baz waits silently and a little surprised at the easy surrender. Snow studies his hands- and Baz knows not to interrupt him searching for the right words. He knows that much, now. When he meets Baz’s eyes, there is a hollowness in them that Baz never wants to see._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

____________"I’m in foster-care." Snow starts with, and Baz feels the world begin to slide out from beneath him. "I got into Watford through scholarship, yes, but also as a special favour. Makes the school look better, and al that." He takes a breath. "Some summer’s I’m in a foster home, some I’m with a family or couple who adopt me. None of them last. And last summer I was taken on by a couple with a really shiny record- they only ever adopted the kids with the shittiest files, the ones the system has given up on finding a home for. I fit that perfectly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

____________"They..." he breaks off, fisting his hands in the duvet either side of his legs. Baz is staring at him, but he’s not looking back. Baz doesn’t think he’s looking at anything in the room._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

____________"They started to rough me around a little bit. Testing the water, I guess. Seeing if I would complain. When I didn’t, it got worse. And worse. I ended up in A and E. My social worker gave me all this paperwork to fill out to file a court case and get them taken off the system, or put in jail, or whatever... but I didn’t fill it in. I knew everything would spiral to hell. I could lose my place here, at Watford. So I didn’t. And now another kid is going to go to that house, with those people. And it’s my fucking fault."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

____________“That’s what your nightmares are about.” Baz whispers. His hands are shaking. Everything around him seems to be shaking a little. All this time, all these years. Hating Snow, loving him. Imagining his perfect family scene. Imagining him loved and happy and with complete freedom with his future. _I’m such an arsehole. I am such a grade A arsehole. _____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

______________Snow nods, still not looking at Baz. He looks gorgeous and broken in the lamplight, his hair spun gold, and his eyes dark._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

______________“I’m so sorry.” Baz forces out. His voice breaks, and he looks away, certain that if Snow looked at him, he would see how much Baz loves him, right there, clear as day. “I didn’t know. But- if the only reason you didn’t appeal is because it would risk your place here, I can stop that.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

______________“What?” Snow asks softly. Baz meets his eyes, plan taking form. “My stepmother is a judge. And she owes me one. My family practically runs the schoolboard. We could get that couple in jail, Snow, and you wouldn’t lose your place here.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

______________Snow looks angry, and then thoughtful, and then a little incredulous. “Of course you have the influence to do that. Of fucking course.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

______________Baz shrugs. “It’s an option. If you want it, I guess.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

______________“But why would you help me? I thought you’d kill to see me kicked out of Watford.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

______________Baz lets out a breathless laugh. “I think I’m done with that, Snow, if you are.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

______________Simon meets Baz’s gaze evenly. “I am, yeah.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the British politics in the middle there. Especially if you're not British, but Simon and Baz are, so it seemed right.


	4. Chapter 4

On the whole, Simon just feels stupid. He has no idea how, in over six years of fighting and hating and kicking, it somehow slipped Simons’ understanding that he and Baz would get along. _Brilliantly. _He was still bloody annoying, pompous and imperious and condescending- but now, when Simon pointed out that he was being a prick, Baz apologised. And he was getting better at it.__

__But Baz was funny. And honest. And had a no-shits-given, no-shits-taken mind-set that was just… calming. Contenting. He was a good listener, too. And he didn’t rush to find answers to every solution, like Penny, but instead is just _there, _listening. Supporting.___ _

____Simon felt slightly terrified that he felt like this. Baz had always been enemy number one- the bane of Simons’ escape to Watford, and now he was another surprisingly wonderful aspect of it. Simon didn’t believe whatever between them- this fragile peace, bordering closer and closer to friendship, was going to last. He was still surprised that he and Penny had lasted this long. (He put it down to the Penelope Bunce force of will- something that must never be underestimated.) But Baz and him… that was ridiculous. And if anyone else knew that they were talking, laughing, whispering… being _not-enemies _… it would all go away.___ _ _ _

______It becomes almost a secret._ _ _ _ _ _

______In class, you wouldn’t be able to tell. They pretty much share a time-table- minus Simon in Physics and Baz in Music, and they still argue all the time. But its’ debate now- they through ideas at each other, protesting and supporting- neither of them trying to win, just trying to push the other a little further. And when Simon makes a decent argument, Baz smiles a little, just for him. Sometimes, Simon will catch Baz’s eye in class and Baz will smirk, like always, but it’s all soft around the corners. It makes Simon blush a bit._ _ _ _ _ _

______Penny is confused. And irritated that she is. (Simon does hate keeping secrets from her- and as his bruises go down and she stops looking suspiciously at his bandaged hands, being friends with Baz becomes a bigger and bigger issue.)_ _ _ _ _ _

______Then they get back to their room- and they talk. Sometimes they joke, (sometimes Simon wonders if its’ flirting) but more often they not they talk, quietly, about what’s worrying them. Baz tells Simon, in fits and starts, about what his family is like. And Simon feels the ache grow in his chest as he realises that he has misjudged Baz as badly as Baz had misjudged Simon- that he does not have a loving family._ _ _ _ _ _

______Baz tells him about his fathers’ cold rage, and then his manic violence when drunk, how any conversations about a music degree end with a pause and a “What would you mother want, Basilton?” Which escalates to Baz telling Simon about his mum- stabbed in the neck by a group of street thugs. Baz’s mum wasting time in saving herself by hiding Baz. How Baz thinks his father blames him. How his step-mother is the only one holding their family together, these days. Baz gets quieter and quieter as he talks, and Simon feels his heart breaking and breaking._ _ _ _ _ _

______This time, it’s Simons’ turn to get Baz water, to tell him to breathe. Baz is methodical with his breakdown- it’s terrifying. Simon watches as Baz begins to pull the emotionless mask over his eyes, sat knee to knee on their respective beds as they so often are, these days- and Simon just reaches out and touches him. Puts his fingers, carefully, on Baz’s wrist. Feels Baz’s pulse._ _ _ _ _ _

______Their skin looks strange together. Baz’s smooth, unmarked, paler on the inside of his wrist than the outside, and Simon- tanned, scabby and scarred, his little finger a bit crooked from breaking it twice. Baz hangs his head, hiding his eyes._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Hey.” Simon whispers._ _ _ _ _ _

______Baz nods his head once in response._ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Hey," _Simon says again, and curls his fingers into Baz’s fist, opening it up, holding his hand. Baz tenses, but then his shoulders slump and he grips Simons’ fingers viciously tight.__ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“It’s not your fault.” Simon says, softly. He leans forward, and rests his head on Baz’s shoulder, Baz’s face in Simons’ neck. Not a hug- not quite- but somehow more intimate than that, one hand clasped between them._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“It’s not your fault either,” Baz whispers minutes later, the words against Simons’ skin. “That you’re in care. Either people will see that or they won’t, Simon. And if they don’t, then they’re not worth your time.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________That night, when Simon wakes up screaming into his fist, shuddering and writhing in the bedsheets, Baz is already there, cool hands on his shoulders, his chin. Making Simon look at Baz. Reminding him what’s real. And this time, Baz holds Simons’ hands and counts for him (7, 2, 11.) while Simon breathes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________…_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________As days pass, and Simon begins to have a strange almost _anticipation _for going to sleep, because in the hours before, he ad Baz would talk, quietly. About things that stressed them out, things that hurt, things they’d never told one another. He realised, at one point, suddenly, that Baz knew more about him than anyone else in the world. He felt almost guilty- surely it should be Penny. And she did know him- but she didn’t know about this summer. (Although, Baz was waiting to hear back from his law expert Step-mother, and the more Baz made Simon feel better about the whole thing, the more Simon wanted to tell her. He hated lying to Penny.)___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He told Baz this revelation, lying in their respective beds, trying to see his face in the darkness. Baz slept on the side of the room with the window, meaning he was just a silhouette to Simon, but Baz could see all of Simons face. Simon often felt that was the way with their relationship. Baz could be the definition of the word _enigmatic _.  
“It’s all part of my cunning plan.” Says Baz. But Simon can tell he’s smiling- can hear it in his voice. “Get your complete trust, learn all your secrets, and then use them to bring you down. Your reputation will be nothing when I’m through with you.” ___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Simon whisper-laughs (something he didn’t think was possible, but since doing this midnight-discussion thing, has become well-acquainted with). “I don’t have a reputation to ruin, Baz. That’s you.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Simon thinks Baz rolled his eyes at that. “You have a reputation, Snow. You are _actually _the golden boy, you know that right?”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Simon doesn’t reply. He hated it when Baz called him that._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Baz reads Simon’s silence correctly, as always. “Oh come off it, Snow. I’m the only one insulted you with that. Everyone else wishes they were you. You’re funny and outgoing and friends with everyone, genuine, talented…” He trails off. Simon is blushing horrendously. He hopes Baz can’t see. “You even have the damn golden hair and blue eyes, Snow. You are text book golden boy.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“I wasn’t aware of that.” He replies. “I thought I only had two friends. Three, counting you.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Baz is quiet for a little while, and Simon wonders if he said the wrong thing. Because as much as they talk, he doesn’t think they’ve ever officially called each other ‘friend’. He’s not sure if he likes it._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Simon is a little taken aback when Baz whispers, “I wish you could meet my sister, Snow. Mordelia. I just- I think you’d get along.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Simon smiles into the darkness. He sort of knows, he thinks, how Baz feels about his sister, that mix of love and fear and protectiveness; he can hear it in his voice whenever he mentions her name. “Yeah?” He whispers back. “How come?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Baz shuffles. “You’re just… similar. Blunt. Brave. Somehow both very perceptive and completely oblivious. You more oblivious than her, obviously.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Simon laughs. “I’m going to ignore that last comment and take that as a compliment, Baz.” Baz laughs too, quietly. And then yawns. Simon is tired too- the nights up talking are not great for his sleep, sporadic enough already. But nightmares aren’t so bad anymore. And he knows, even though he’s tired, that he’s _good _. He hasn’t felt this good in a long time.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Simon wonders how oblivious he really is. To his own feelings- and to others’. He isn’t sure Baz is awake when he whispers, “How long have you not hated me?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Baz whispers so softly Simon isn’t sure he’s not already dreaming. “I never did, Snow.”  
…_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________It’s a week into November when Baz gets the letter. Watford still has a postal system, and Baz often gets letters, so do most- mainly money so they can fulfil all their expensive habits whilst at boarding school. Simon never gets letters. They do have Wi-Fi at Watford, but it’s terrible anywhere that isn’t the classrooms, so E-Mail is useless._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________But still- the notification to Baz that he has mail is not strange. Simons’ alone in the room after dinner, but he’s not worried. He showers and puts on pyjamas, and when he comes out of the bathroom, Baz is sat on the edge of his bed, reading a letter._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“Hey.” Simon says, hanging up his uniform for tomorrow. He only turns, looking confused, when Baz doesn’t reply. Baz always replies- he has an answer for everything. “Baz?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________He then notices that Baz is shaking, just a little. His shoulders are hunched, tense, head down, hair falling forward, hiding his eyes. The letter flutters in his hands as they shake, too. Simon has seen Baz like this before, but not often. His ruthless self-control is hard to break._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Simon is there in a moment, sat opposite, putting his hand on Baz’s forearm, trying to get him to look up. Worry curls up in his stomach as he realises Baz is muttering ‘fuck’ under his breath._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“Baz?” He asks again. “What is it? Who’s the letter from?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Baz takes a few deep breaths. Simon tightens his grip on Baz’s arm, ducking his head to see Baz’s face. “Mordelia. It’s from Mordelia.” His voice is steady- cold._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“And..? What does it say, Baz?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Baz jerks his head up fast, close enough that he almost smashes his forehead into Simon’s face- Simon moves back, not realising how close they were. The sneer on Baz’s face is harsh, his grey eyes flashing. Simon does not flinch._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“It says, Snow, that my dear, _dear _, father threw my 13 year old sister against a _wall _because he was hammered. Because she said she wanted to go to drama school, lo and behold, and not study fucking biology. Because he’s a mess, and he can’t control himself, no matter how much he cries and tries to hug it better afterwards, and now she’s writing to me, telling _me _, her older brother who is supposed to _protect _her, that she feels trapped and alone in that house, and that her mum doesn’t know, and she keeps getting panic attacks, and I am _completely _useless, and-”___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________“BAZ!” Simon shouts. He hates that it makes Baz jump, but he’s not listening to Simon’s other methods of shutting him up. Baz blinks, hard. Simon is holding onto both of Baz’s forearms now, lean muscle and bone beneath his shirt._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________“Baz, stop talking. Just breathe.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________“For fucks sake Snow did you not listen to-”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________“Please, Baz. I listened. Five minutes. Just give me five minutes.” Simon keeps his eyes steady, his grip tight. He breathes audibly, slowly. He watches the realisation wash through Baz’s eyes- how many times has Baz done this for Simon now? Simon having a panic attack or waking up screaming- and Baz. Voice steady, holding on tight, eyes (storm clouds or razor metal) (not _helpful _, Snow.) not letting Simon go.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________Baz closes his eyes, shoulders slumping, and breathes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________The minutes stretch on, and Simon doesn’t move, doesn’t relax his grip. He brushes his fingers against the inside of Baz’s wrist and opens his mouth to- he’s not sure, offer a drink of water? Reassurance? (Kiss him?)_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________But all of a sudden, Baz breaks. Shoulders shaking, breaths panting, tears streaming. Horrible, wretched sobs, pulled from some sharp cavity in his chest, and Simon feels his heart shatter, and feels the determination to never, _never _, see Baz cry like this again.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________He doesn’t even hesitate before flinging his arms around Baz’s thin shoulders and pulling him viciously close. Baz pushes his face into Simon’s shoulder, hands clutching at the edge of his jumper, at his ribs. Simon doesn’t loosen his arms one jot, keeps Baz pressed against him, as if he’s trying to hold Baz together himself._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________Baz doesn’t speak as the minutes stretch on, but gradually, the crying quietens, and he shifts his face against Simons’ shoulder._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“I made your shirt all wet.” He whispers, voice hoarse, small. His shoulders have tensed again, and Simon wonders if he’s going to pull away._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“Forget it. I’ll steal one of yours in compensation.” Simon says back, not letting go. There’s a pause, then Baz releases the tension in his arms and slides them all the way around Simon, pressing his face into Simons’ neck, black hair soft and ticklish against his skin._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________He laughs a little, but it’s not happy._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“I need to get her out of there, Simon.” He says, and Simon almost collapse in relief for the tone- determined, certain. Hurting, but he’s going to fix it. It’s the same tone he used when he explained what Simon could do to go public about what happened over the summer._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“I know. I’ll help, if I can. If you want me to.” Simon replies. He holds onto Baz tightly, something warm and fierce expanding rapidly in his chest. Almost painful, and way too stressful to deal with right now._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________Baz huffs out another laugh, and this one is softer. He presses his face in further, tightens his arms. Then, muffled into Simons’ neck and so almost inaudible that Simon doesn’t think he’s supposed to hear it, Baz whispers: “What did I do to get you, Simon Snow?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________Sometime later, possible a slightly embarrassing amount of time, when Baz has stopped shaking, Simon realises that he has almost fallen asleep, holding onto Simon. Simon smiles, and pushes, gently, making Baz fall back onto his bed. At the last second, Baz tightens his grip, and Simon finds himself following, until they’re both lying there, close together._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________Simon smiles again, but Baz is half-asleep… or appears to be. Simon sighs and starts sorting out the duvet without upsetting Baz’s grip on him. When he finally pulls the covers up over them both, though, he sees that Baz is smirking, almost laughing, eyes still shut._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“Oh, shut it, you.” Simon says, and Baz does laugh, openly, and he opens his eyes to crinkle them at Simon. And Simon is such a goner, because when he twists to turn the light off and then back again, Baz is still smiling, eyes closed, hands fisted in Simons’ T-Shirt._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________Simon knows he’s a goner, because he has no arguments left. No worries. Worries that he’s going to lose Baz, that Baz doesn’t feel the same. He won’t lose Baz, no matter how much Simon wants to kiss him, right now, sleepy and warm and vulnerable. So Simon gives in, at least for now, and wraps his arms around thin shoulders._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________He doesn’t dream._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	5. Chapter 5

Baz wakes up with a distinct, still half-unconscious idea that the space next time had been filled when he fell asleep, but was empty now. The absence felt like a vacuum, like something had inhaled Simon away, leaving blank space in his place. He stretched out his fingers. The sheets beside him were cold. 

He surveyed the room with one look, and then through the open door to the bathroom with another. Empty. Simon had gone.

“Well, fuck.” Baz said aloud to the empty room. 

He should have known, he supposed. Should have been more prepared for this. But he had let himself forget, as the last weeks had settled into routine from anomaly (an anomaly bordering on a miracle, that is). That as much as he and Simon had grown closer, become _friends_ , even, Baz would never feel just-friendly to Simon. All the last weeks had done had made his feelings painfully intense. It had been driving him nuts- more than anything else, because he was _lying_ to Simon.

Simon, who had lied and lied to keep his place here, to gain enough respect, to get places on trips and opportunities- all of it, he said, to win a scholarship. His only shot at university, at a life he wanted. Simon, who had to lie to almost everyone, but had started telling the truth to Baz. And Baz had told him truths- more and more, until it was almost easy. 

But Baz had been lying to Simon. All the time. Every time he touched him, looked at him, talked to him. And sometimes, he let himself believe. When Simon blushed or flirted or laughed and touched him… Baz pretended he felt the same. Even just a little bit.

But last night had been too much. Too far. Baz could feel burning embarrassment rolling through him, the way he’d clung to Simon, pulled him down. And Simon had tried to laugh it off- tried to… but he was confused. Or weirded out. Or something. Something _too much. Too far._ Something _not that way_. Something _I don’t want to hurt you, but no_.

Baz sort of wanted to punch a wall. Or Simon.

How could he have let this happen? To the best friend, best thing, he’d ever had. The healthiest relationship, certainly. He had friends, sure, but they didn’t talk about real things. Things including emotions. 

He thought of Simon. Of Simon with scarred hands, fierce eyes. Simon who didn’t back down, didn’t give up, no matter the odds, no matter who was trying to stop him. And Baz wasn’t going to give up- he wasn’t going to let Simon… let _himself_ , lose him.

Because, goddammit, he was in love with Simon Snow, completely, irresponsibly, irreversibly. And he had been dealing with it for a long time. He would continue to.  
“Fuck.” He says mildly to the ceiling. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

It was a Saturday. Snow could be anywhere, with anyone. (Probably in the Dining Hall. With Penelope.) It was almost midday- Baz had slept for hours, longer than he had in a long time, certainly. _And no nightmares, no anxiety. Despite the letter yesterday._ Baz stared at the closed door- blocking him from Simon. Baz would stay. He would shower, and get dressed, and tidy up, write back to his sister, telling her he was getting her out, that Fiona was going to settle in her flat in London and look after them. He would write the letter… and then he would wait here. And if Snow came back, Baz would talk to him, and explain. And he would say that it doesn’t matter. How he feels. That he’ll get over it.

And Simon… Simon won’t leave him. 

_Please_.

…

(Simon)

Penny had slept in till almost one, and looked surprised to see Simon waiting for her, as he had been for the last two hours. He’d gone to breakfast and not found her, and then walked here and paced, asking anyone walking in or out to get Penny for him. By her surprised look, he assumed none of them had. 

“Simon?” She didn’t stay surprised. Penny was fairly unshakeable. It was something Simon greatly respected her for. 

“I need to talk to you.” Simon had said. And somewhere in 6 and a half years of friendship that had become a code, and when Penny heard Simon say it, she went full productivity mode, adjusted her glasses, grabbed his arm, and hauled him somewhere private for them to talk it out. 

They found a wall behind the tennis courts and sat down, side by side. Simon couldn’t stop clenching and unclenching his hands. Penny ran a critical eye over all of him, and then said, “Go.” 

Simon got through all of one sentence before he stood up and started pacing. 

He told Penny everything. All the things Baz knew about him. All the things they had done to become friends. The conversations they had had. He told her nothing about Baz’s secrets, of course, but all of his own. He told her, tentatively, and then more confidently, about the summer he had had. He watched unshakeable Penny shake. 

She wasn’t a good listener- she kept interrupting, asking questions, pressing deeper. He didn’t resist her- it’s her fault she didn’t know any of it. He was the one who had broken their ‘no secrets’ pact. She didn’t mention it, though. But whenever he hesitated, she gave him a stern glare. _You owe me this information, Simon_. When he talked about the couple he’d stayed with last summer, what they’d done, what Simon hadn’t done afterwards… Penny got up and threw her arms around him. Penny hugged  
_strongly_. Made it mean something. She hit him for not telling her. 

When he got her up to date, until last night, she was shaking her head in disbelief. Simon sat back down next to her. 

“So, _so_. This is why Baz always stares at you in class. Why you turned down the assholery to him.” She shakes her head again, turns to look at him with serious brown eyes. “Baz is right about you not being powerless, Simon. My mum runs Ofsted. You’re not getting kicked out of Watford for going on record about abuse.” 

Simon laughs, a little. Because having Baz and Penny know… last summer doesn’t seem like such a big dark secret anymore. Why was he ashamed it happened? He was wrong not to go on record. He could fix that. “Why do I forget that everyone here has crazy well-connected parents?” 

Penny smiles, softly. “Because you never grew up relying on adults. You’ve never needed anyone, Simon, not really. But right now- you do. You need Baz, apparently, and I’m honestly so happy you’ve had someone you can talk to about all of this… but Simon. We’ve been best friends since the first day of Watford. I know you better than anyone, including Mr Midnight Conversations. And there’s something else, isn’t there? What’s the thing you aren’t telling me?”

Simon grins and rolls his eyes. “Too well. You know me too well.” She nudges him in the side with her elbow. 

Simon studies the tennis courts. Penny waits. He and Penny… they’ve never talked much about each other’s romantic interests. She’s got her American boyfriend who he’s met, like, once, but seems cool and makes Penny happy. When Simon and Agatha got together, Penny accepted it with no conversations. When they broke up, she nodded. 

_“I’m glad. You were making each other miserable. Which was tremendously irritating for me. You do realise you’re my only two friends this side of the Atlantic, right?”_

Simon felt, for some reason, way more worried about telling her this than telling her about the summer. No one knew this. Simon hadn’t even said it to himself, not properly.  
“I like Baz.” He says. “I like Baz more than I should, because he can still be an arsehole. And a snobby prick. But… I like him being my friend. But I wish he was more than that.” Simon took another breath. He didn’t look at Penny; could feel her watching him. “He doesn’t feel the same. But… I can’t ignore it anymore. Not after last night. And I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to ruin anything. I just… need your advice. About... _boys_ , I guess.” 

He chances a look at Penny, running worst case scenarios through his mind. Scandalised? Disgusted? Betrayed? Mocking?

Penny’s mouth was pursed. Her shoulders were shaking. Hey eyes were dancing. She was _laughing_. Simon must have looked confused, because Penny’s control disintegrated, and she started laughing, almost falling off the wall.

Simon wrapped his arms around his waist and looked away, waiting for her to stop. She did, almost straight away, but when she pulled at his elbows, making him face her, she was still grinning. Euphoric. 

“Oh, Simon. I love you, you know that?” Simon opened his mouth. She ploughed on. “Of _course_ you like Baz. I figured that out about ten minutes ago. And I don’t care, if you were worried. And don’t worry about your sexuality- that’s the sort of thing you’d overthink pointlessly. This is _wonderful_.” She said, and laughed again.

Simon was still confused. 

“What are you laughing about? What is so wonderful?”

Penny’s grin doesn’t falter as she answers. “You could not be more oblivious. You do realise Baz is completely head over heels for you, right? _Everyone_ knows. _Everyone_. He’s terrible at hiding it. That’s why nobody takes him seriously anymore- he used to be this smart, important guy who hated you, now he’s smart, important, and blushes every time you say his name.” 

Simon stares at her. Counts to 30 in 3’s. 

“… Are you _sure_?”

She pokes his arm. “Positive. Now,” she shoves him. “ _Go_.”

…

(Baz)

Baz has taken up Simons’ favourite pass-time. Pacing their rom in the same way he has watched Simon do for so many years- from the door to between their beds to the window to the bathroom door and then back to the door… again and again, thoughts racing, his feet wearing down the already worn rug. 

Baz is ready to tell Simon. Tell him everything. Can’t stand lying to him, not a moment longer. He’s debating whether or not to go find him or to wait. 

He’s leaning towards the former, walking in the door-to-window part of his continuous journey when the door smashes open. 

(Bloody Snow- he’s never once opened that door gently. There’s a hole in the paintwork where the door handle hits the plaster.)

Baz spins, eyes wide, and takes in Simon. Simon, panting. Simon, messy haired and wild eyed. Simon, who’s been running. Simon- Simon who is looking at Baz- looking at him like-

Simon kicks the door shut and crosses the room in three strides to where Baz is stationary. He takes a breath. 

“Simon, I-”

Simon has reaches him, grabs his face and is kisses him. Simon Snow. Kissing Baz. His hands are warm and rough on his chin and jaw- his lips even more so. 

And he doesn’t stop.

...

(Simon)

Simon feels like this is one of the situations he should have planned out. But he had been so intent on finding Baz that he had run to their room, up three flights of stairs, and thought of nothing even slightly productive. 

And then he had opened the door, and Baz had been standing in the middle of the room, hair tousled, falling into his face, face pale, eyes wide, looking like he was on death row… and Simon hadn’t thought. Had just about heard his name as Baz said it, and then he’d kissed him. 

Definitely should have been more planning there. 

And now… now Baz wasn’t kissing him back. Baz was frozen still. Oh fuck. Had Penny been wrong? Had he completely fucking messed this up. _Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-_

But then Baz is grabbing at him, pressing close, hands in Simons hair, running up his back, making him shiver. And Simon wonders why he waited so long to do this. Wonders how long he can do it for. 

And then he sort of stops thinking completely. 

...

(Baz)

Simon isn’t stopping. Isn’t apologising or breaking away or… Baz isn’t returning this kiss, is he? Fuck. And Simon is slowing… and Baz knows, can almost hear Simon thinking he’s got it wrong, that Baz doesn’t want him like this. _The tables have turned, Snow._

Baz grabs Snow at the waist, his hair, his shoulder blades (too fucking skinny), and proves to him that he wants this. Has he ever wanted anything else?

When they break apart- well. Simon doesn’t let go, and neither does Baz, not giving him one inch of space. “You bastard.” Says Baz as Simon kisses his cheek, his jaw. “You absolute bastard.” Then they’re kissing again. Baz could die like this. He may. 

Of course- Baz laments, - an uncertain amount of time later, that everything must end. Including kissing Simon Snow in the middle of your room on a random, and now sacred Saturday. And when he finally, finally meets Simons’ eyes, he knows he has a hundred and fifty things to tell him, right this very minute… but also that he thinks Simon knows it all anyway. 

“I-ah- wanted to talk to you.” Simon says. 

Baz smirks. “I gathered that.” 

It ends up being the long-conversation to end all long-conversations. (And the best one ever- because he and Simon are tangled up, half-lying-half-sitting on Baz’s bed, a tangle of limbs and Baz can just reach out and kiss him. Whenever.)

Baz tells Simon, (no hesitation, no more lying) how long he has wanted Simon. Simon tells him how he has no idea how long, only that he does. Desperately. Simon tells him about his conversation with Penelope, which makes Baz blush horrendously (which makes Simon kiss his cheeks), but he can’t fault Penelope one inch, as without her ever-present rationality, Simon would not be in his arms right now. 

They go down to dinner and sit at the same table. Baz glares at anyone who stares. Simon holds his hand out of sight. Penny joins them, shakes Baz’s hand, and starts talking about a humanitarian crisis in South East Asia. 

(She does, at one point, take a very pointy hair pin out of her masses of hair and point it threatening at Baz’s nose. 

“Hurt him and I kill you, Pitch.” She says. (Simon laughs.)

“Not going to happen.” Baz says, meeting her glare head-on. (Simon smiles, looking away. Baz squeezes his hand.) 

Penny nods in satisfaction and continues eating her dinner.)

… 

The rest of the year has several big changes. And several things that don’t change at all. 

Most importantly- Simon goes to court. He writes a statement, and Baz and Penny go with him. Daphne is there, too, and Baz gets to glare at the couple that beat Simon up. He’s shaking with rage, but focuses it on holding Simons’ hand. Simon doesn’t break. Stares them in the eye and issues his statement. His social worker, a lady called Ebb, cries at the end, and her and Simon hug for a long time. When Simon smiles at Baz, after, there’s something dark gone from his eyes. 

Baz goes home to his house for Christmas. He brings Simon. And Simon helps him as he sorts out drama school for Mordelia, as he talks to Fiona so she promises to be absolutely sober Monday to Friday so Mordelia can stay with her in London and go to school every day. Both Fiona and Mordelia are ecstatic. 

Baz’s father has been going to AA meetings. They talk for a long time. Baz decides to go to University in London. His father smiles. 

Baz and Simon still talk till midnight most nights. Penny joins them in their room in the summer term for long evenings of studying, though. They all drop off with their heads on textbooks half the time. 

But exams go okay. 

The rest of their classmates find out about Simon being in care- and also about the trial. It’s well publicised. They do not mock. One girl made one scathing comment in the dining hall- Baz stands, but Penny gets there first and punches her so hard in the face that she falls over and tips her tray of spaghetti bolognaise on her fancy shirt. Penny gets slightly too few detentions for the crime and a letter home. Baz also gets detention- for laughing.

When they break up for summer, Baz and Simon stay up the whole night, talking and laughing and kissing in this room that has been an escape, a hell, and a haven for them both. They talk about Baz pushing Simon down the stairs. Simon giving Baz a black eye. All the times they pretended to hate each other. The times they actually did. 

And when they pack up the next morning… Baz is ready to leave. Because for the first time, he has something to live for outside of Watford. 

Results day comes without a ruffle.

Simon gets a scholarship to his number one Uni to do astrophysics and maths. (Baz can’t imagine anything worse.) Him and Penny will be twenty minutes from Fiona’s flat, where Baz is going to be living. Baz is going to Uni in London- and he’s settled on Music Theory and Composition. His father tells him he’s proud of Baz.

Baz… believes him. 

He doesn’t see Simon for two weeks after that- his family go visiting relatives, and Simon and Penny are flat-shopping. 

When he turns up at their new door, two weeks later, Simon greets him with a kiss that almost knocks him over before he utters a word. Just like the first time. 

Penny is off doing a grocery run. Simon shows him around, and then they stand in the kitchen, Simon making tea. Whilst the kettle boils, Baz pulls Simon to him by his belt loops and kisses him. Simon smiles. “I love you.” He says, like it’s not a pronouncement. Like he’s told Baz that a hundred times before. (He’s never said it.) Baz kisses him breathless. Then just holds him, kissing slowly. 

“You’re going to die kissing me.” Baz says mildly. “Just so you know.”

Simon laughs. “Bit morbid, Baz.” 

Baz just shakes his head, presses closer. Kisses Simons’ cheek, above his eyebrow, his lips. “It’s not. It’s Bukowski:” he brushed his lips against Simon’s ear. Smiles. “ _Find what you love, and let it kill you._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading-- it's over!!! Thanks again to anyone commenting or liking or bookmarking it honestly means so damn much. Dearest Hannah, I hope this was worth all the effort you put into completely thrashing me at bowling. ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading ;) this story came to be because I am rubbish at bowling and placed a bet on a game of bowling. My dear hannah, I hope it's what you wanted. Asshole.


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